


Draw Blood

by drunkbedelia



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Blood, F/F, Just miranda being miranda, Mystery, POV Multiple, Pre-Canon, Threats of Violence, a Christmas murder mystery, me thirsting for pre covid crowds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkbedelia/pseuds/drunkbedelia
Summary: The woman got off the train at Earl’s Court and stalked down the fast-emptying street, fists buried deep in her coat pockets. No passerby would suspect that she clenched in one hand a butterfly knife, and in the other, a semi-automatic. It wasn’t a case of overdramatics; she had experienced too many encounters with strangers down alleyways to know that they always ended badly. Lucky for her, the other party always ended up worse.Miranda didn’t intend to change that tonight.---What happened in London, in a crack-AU way. Really an excuse to think about Miranda Croft's dynamic with various ladies.
Relationships: But mainly Miranda/herself, Cecilia/Miranda Croft, Miranda Croft/character development, Miranda Croft/every woman she encounters
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Draw Blood

_CECILIA_

London at Christmas was, undoubtedly, shit. This belief was something Cecilia had held since moving to the city eight years ago, but now, fighting the packed crowds of Holborn station, it calcified into a fervent, itchy rage. Or maybe that was just the cat scratches that prickled under her coat sleeve. Either way, she wore a permanent scowl as she stepped into the biting cold of central London.

‘Fuck off,’ Cecilia muttered as she battled through a group of men outside a corner pub, prematurely pissed from their work do and singing an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne. One of them stumbled into her while trying to hit a high note, and Cecilia shot him a hard glare before hurrying on, dodging his attempt to pull her in for a drunken hug. The brief contact was enough to send her grazed arm into a frenzy, but Cecilia resisted the urge to scratch. Damned cat.

By the time Cecilia made it to her destination, an old brick building off the Strand, she was equally grateful to be free of the cold and filled with dread for the task at hand. She slipped the man behind the front desk a crumpled £50 note, courtesy of Victor (he’d given her £100 for the bribe, but Cecilia had learned during her last visit that this particular doorman was cheap, and her bank account was always grateful for a little extra cash), and jogged up the empty staircase. 

The London School of Economics was, thankfully, free of students at this time of year, and Cecilia climbed her way to the third floor uninterrupted. As she rounded the corner, her nose wrinkled at a new, unpleasant scent: a thousand previously microwaved lunches, at least one featuring fish. The place really was a shithole. Cecilia knew she could hardly judge, given her role in Victor’s company, but at least she wasn’t forced to make small talk around the tub of Tesco Finest instant coffee each morning. Miranda’s apparent desire to drag out this gig was truly confounding.

Cecilia ignored the itch of her arm as she raised her fist above the door’s scrawled Elena King name plate. She knocked, once. No answer. Cecilia tried again, louder this time. If Miranda wasn’t there – if she’d come all the way to fucking Holborn for nothing–

‘Come in.’ The unmistakable Glaswegian murmur of Miranda Croft sounded from the other side of the door. Cecilia swung it open and was at first surprised, and then very much not, by what she found: a young woman, rather red in the face, hiking up her tights in the corner, as Miranda took a seat behind her desk, her face casual, even bored. On seeing Cecilia, her lip curled.

‘Cecilia,’ Miranda said. She leaned back in her chair. ‘We were just–’

‘–Yeah, you don’t need to tell me,’ Cecilia interrupted, eyeing the woman in the corner, who was now blushing scarlet and frantically shrugging on her coat. ‘I don’t think we’ve met–’

But, too late, the woman dodged Cecilia’s outstretched hand and hurried out of the office. Cecilia turned back to Miranda. ‘Funny. Back when I was at uni, I don’t think office hours were as hands-on.’

‘Maybe if they were, you would have actually graduated.’ At Cecilia’s face, Miranda added, ‘Christ’s sake, calm down. She’s not a student. She works here.’

‘Right,’ Cecilia said, shutting the office door behind her with a click. She took the seat on the other side of the desk, careful to keep her expression just as cool as Miranda’s. ‘And do you? Work here?’

Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought Victor shared at least the very basics of these jobs with you, but if I was mistaken–’

Cecilia’s nostrils flared. ‘No, he does. Obviously. I mean, did you forget to tell me that you’ve quit Victor and decided to become an economics professor full-time.’ _Despite robbery and extortion being your only qualification in the subject,_ Cecilia added, but only in her head, to avoid a garrotting. 

Miranda’s lip twitched. ‘Considering you have as much significance in this job as the dinner lady who served me my pie this afternoon, i.e., none…’ Miranda furrowed her brow in faux concentration. ‘No, I don’t think I forgot to tell _you_ anything.’ 

Cecilia bit back the first dozen responses that came to mind, almost impressed by the woman’s skill to infuriate. Miranda stood from her chair and wandered over to the window, letting the jab fester. The sounds of the street below made their way up to the window, muffled shouts and car horns blaring.

‘This job was supposed to take a week,’ Cecilia said, finally. ‘It’s been two months. Victor… He’s concerned.’ Cecilia chose the word carefully; at some point in working together, ‘concerned’ had become their euphemism for Victor’s special brand of temper tantrum.

Miranda didn’t turn from the window. The lights from outside cast her silhouette in red. ‘The mark’s taking a little longer to figure out.’

‘Really?’ Cecilia asked. ‘Don’t you just shoot them in an alley? How long does that take?’

Miranda looked over her shoulder and quirked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t pretend like you understand what I do, Cecilia. It’s embarrassing.’

Cecilia’s teeth ground together and oh, how she wished she did know enough about Miranda’s work to have a suitable comeback. After three years, much of what the woman did for Victor remained a mystery. Instead, Cecilia asked, ‘Is the mark that woman you were with? Don’t want to waste a good fuck?’

Miranda moved away from the window, leaning against the desk instead. She slid her hands into her trouser pockets and watched Cecilia with that same calculating expression as she asked, ‘Jealous, are we?’ 

Before Cecilia could refute the absurdity of that remark, Miranda’s gaze moved to Cecilia’s torso. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What?’ Cecilia asked, her heart pounding. Looking down, she saw what had caught Miranda’s attention: she had been absentmindedly rubbing at her injuries.

In one movement, Miranda grabbed Cecilia’s arm and yanked up the coat sleeve. ‘Hey!–’ Cecilia protested, but it was too late. Miranda was studying the claw marks there with mild interest. ‘How is Maurice?’

Cecilia shook Miranda off and pulled her sleeve back down. ‘Victor wants a timeframe.’

Miranda hopped off the edge of the desk and disappeared around the other side. ‘Tell him, soon,’ she said, her voice muffled by the sound of drawers opening and closing.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Cecilia asked. When Miranda didn’t respond, still busy behind the desk, she stood from her chair. ‘I’ll need a better answer than “soon,” you know.’

Miranda reappeared, something hidden in her closed fist. ‘Oh, Cecilia. Threats don’t really work, coming from you. That sweet face.’ She pursed her lips and strode back to the other side of the desk, pausing mere inches away.

Cecilia felt that particular tingle down her spine – the sensation only experienced when positioned this close to Miranda Croft. It was like waiting on the edge of a tube platform as a train approached, knowing just how easy it would be to step into the abyss…

‘That’s why, after all this time, you’re still just Victor’s lackey.’

The words stung like salt in a broken lip. ‘Like you’re any better,’ Cecilia said, quietly.

Miranda pressed her hand to Cecilia’s back, drawing her close. Cecilia could see every detail of the woman’s face, including the red marks that trailed from chin to collarbone – left there by that woman she walked in on? Thankfully, the thought was wiped from her mind as Cecilia felt something poking into her side. Cecilia remembered all too well Miranda’s penchant for knives that could fit in the palm of her hand; but surely Miranda wouldn’t kill her, not while she was working for Victor. Cecilia hoped that if she did, Victor would at least dock Miranda’s pay. Though, she wasn’t optimistic.

Cecilia stayed frozen in place, waiting for Miranda to move, to stab, to threaten. She registered she was hardly breathing, but also couldn’t quite remember how. Miranda didn’t break eye contact as she took Cecilia’s hand and slowly pressed something into her palm. Cecilia felt a shudder of relief – or was it disappointment? – as she realised it was not a knife at all, but a wad of cash. And, strangely, a small white tube.

Miranda released Cecilia from her grip and stepped back a fraction, still close enough to be unnerving.

Cecilia stared at the money. She couldn’t tell without counting, but she guessed it was at least a thousand pounds, maybe two. ‘What is this?’ 

‘Incentive,’ Miranda said. ‘Tell Victor everything is going to plan.’

‘He’ll find out you’re lying,’ Cecilia said, her eyes still on the cash. It made her squirrelled away £50 look like pennies. ‘Eventually.’

‘Who said I’m lying?’ Miranda asked.

Cecilia looked up, but Miranda’s expression was inscrutable as ever. Cecilia shook her head. ‘This is dangerous–’

‘–He won’t find out,’ Miranda cut off her protest. ‘I promise.’ She finally moved away, at last allowing Cecilia to catch her breath. ‘And if you need a little something extra, for old time’s sake. You know where to find me.’

Cecilia rolled her eyes. ‘Fuck you, Miranda.’ She took the cash and held up the other half of the gift, the plastic tube, a question on her lips.

‘For the scratches,’ Miranda said. ‘Maurice’s claws tend to cause infection.’

Cecilia cursed under her breath, but pocketed the cream.

‘Don’t forget to feed her,’ Miranda called as Cecilia left the office, slamming the door shut behind her. She stepped back out onto the street feeling a little ill, Miranda's bribe heavy as a stone.

So she would lie to Victor. Buy Miranda some time. No big deal. 

And besides, Miranda had promised he wouldn’t find out. Unfortunately, Cecilia knew all too well that promises were cheap, especially when they came from Miranda. The woman handled words like weapons, and a promise was the soft handle of a knife, a mere warning of the blade it preceded. 

Cecilia rubbed her arm through her sleeve, the itching more painful than ever. Damn. This better work.

\----

_MIRANDA_

The woman got off the train at Earl’s Court and stalked down the fast-emptying street, fists buried deep in her coat pockets. No passerby would suspect that she clenched in one hand a butterfly knife, and in the other, a semi-automatic. It wasn’t a case of overdramatics; she had experienced too many encounters with strangers down alleyways to know that they always ended badly. Lucky for her, the other party always ended up worse. Miranda didn’t intend to change that tonight.

Miranda’s boots clicked on the black and white tiles outside the Kensington flat before letting herself in with a key. Stepping into the foyer, she paused in the darkness, knife firmly in hand, listening. The many years in her line of work had taught her to never trust a dark flat, even if it was her own.

After a moment, the hallway light switched on, and a woman appeared in the doorframe. Miranda quickly concealed the knife in her palm.

‘It’s late,’ the woman frowned, taking a long drag from her cigarette. ‘What on earth are you doing in the dark?’

‘Nothing,’ Miranda said. ‘Waiting for you,’ she added, when the woman raised a bemused eyebrow. 

‘You are odd, you know,’ the woman said, striding towards Miranda and leaving a soft kiss on her lips. She extinguished her cigarette on the credenza and wrapped Miranda in an embrace. ‘But as it’s Christmas, I’ll forgive you. My strange, beautiful Elena.’

Miranda’s lip twitched as she returned the embrace, swivelling the knife around her fingers behind the woman’s back. ‘My Zelda.’

Miranda gripped the blade so tightly, she drew blood.


End file.
